Tamar Myers - Butter Safe Than Sorry

But guests who are paying through the nose expect the luxury of sleeping in a little bit, just as long as those same guests haven’t signed up for milking duties. A full udder, just like a full bladder, can be a painful thing, and emptying it cannot be put off. Knowing, as I did, that not everyone had volunteered to rise with the cows, I scurried into the kitchen to try to calm the storm.

“Freni,” I managed to hiss without a single “S,” in the tradition of many established novelists. Of course, she didn’t hear me, so I shouted through cupped hands, “Freni!”

Two pot lids froze in midair and the stout woman turned slowly. “So, finally, the beauty sleep is over?”

“Yes. At six thirty, I’m as beautiful as I’ll ever need to be. How about you?”

“Ach, we Amish don’t care about such things; you know that.”

“That’s true. But you obviously care a great deal about something else at the moment. What is it?”

Freni stared at me through lenses as thick as the bottoms of the old nickel Coke bottles. “That woman, she drives me up the walls, yah?”

“Several walls simultaneously?”

I could feel her stare intensify. “Always the riddles, Magdalena.”

“That woman,” I said, “is your dear, sweet daughter- in-law, Barbara. And the only reason you don’t like her is that she’s from Iowa -and she’s married to your son, Jonathan.”

“And she is too tall, yah?”

“Too tall for what? In September you had her picking apples from the top of your tree, and she didn’t even have to use a ladder.”

“Yah, and she cleans good the dust from the top of my cupboard.”

“You see, she’s indispensable. Not to mention that she gave birth to your three grandbabies, whom you absolutely adore, and two of whom take after their mother.”

“Yah, maybe they will be too tall as well.”

“Freni, count your blessings. You know how much Barbara misses her family in Iowa, and your precious Jonathan would do anything to please her. I think you’re fortunate that she hasn’t picked up stakes and heeded the words of Horace Greeley.”

Despite the smudges of grease and flour on her lenses, I could tell that Freni was blinking. “What words?”

“Just silly unimportant words.” It was time to change the subject. “Freni, do you know any Amish women who could sew a complete traditional outfit for me?”

She blinked again, but then like a faulty headlamp that had finally started to function, her face was transformed into a circle of beaming light. “You are the daughter I never had, yah? But still, you want to be Amish! For once I do not know what to say.”

“Oh Freni, alas, ’tis true. I am not the lass of thy loins-would that I were-but thou must not misconstrue my motives for acquiring the aforementioned garment.”

“And now more riddles.”

“No riddles. I just want to know the name of a good seamstress. You see, I’ve hired a girl for the front desk, and I want to get her a nice authentic Amish outfit.”

Poof! The glowing orb of light was extinguished, and it was all my fault-except that it wasn’t; Freni should know that I will never become an Amish woman. Amish women don’t shave their legs, or under their arms, or their mustaches-not that I need to do that quite yet. And they certainly don’t drive cars, and they have to be subservient to their husbands, which, of course, any good Christian wife should be, just not to that degree, and they don’t get to have air-conditioning, which surely ranks among one of God’s greatest gifts-

“ Magdalena! Are you out there?”

“What?”

“You are out in the spaces of your mind, yah?”

“I’m fine. Just prone to daydreaming-as is my wont.”

Freni nodded, which is quite a feat, given that she has no neck. “You have always many such dreams. Now tell me about this girl. Is she a good Christian?”

I was taken aback. That was one thing I had failed to ask. Ding dang, where were my standards these days? On the other hand, ever since I’d said “I do” to an upstanding Jewish man, I felt uneasy about inquiring about other folks’ religious affiliations before agreeing to do business with them. Such inquiries-very discreet, of course-were still common amongst my acquaintances. There was even a Christian business phone book of sorts that I had seen in circulation, although I personally refused to consult it.

After all, if given the choice-and this still a free country-who in Hernia wouldn’t prefer to buy their shoes or plumbing supplies from a good Christian than from a nonbeliever? And just to set the record straight, our good folk were not just discriminating against Jews, Muslims, and Hindus, but anyone who was not “born again”-i.e., the Roman Catholics and Episcopalians.

I cringed dramatically. “Oops. I’m sorry, Freni, but Amy is a heathen.”

“Ach!” She dropped both pot lids as she threw her pudgy hands up to shield her face from impending evil. Then on second thought, she abruptly dropped them. “You are joking. Yah?”

“Oh no, I’m quite serious. This woman’s a card-carrying member of PAPA-Pagan American Princess Association.”

Freni gasped. “Get behind me, Satan!”

“Speaking of whom,” I said casually, “I was thinking of opening a snack bar in the lobby that Amy could run. We could stock it with Devil’s food cupcakes, deviled eggs-”

Freni was beside herself, which made for a crowded space in front of the stove. “Then I quit!”

It was oops for real this time; I hadn’t seen this one coming. Freni has quit a grand total of 187 times. Thank heavens the last time I hired her back, I made her sign a contract stating that she would give me two weeks’ notice and put me in touch with at least three other Amish women who could benefit from earning a little extra pocket money. Since Freni-and she does so with the greatest of humility, not to mention justification-considers herself to be the best cook between the Allegheny and the Delaware rivers, it didn’t seem likely that she would have ever been able to name a replacement.

“Then quit, dear,” I said calmly. “I’ll mark the date on the calendar.”

She tore at her apron. “I quit now.”

“You can’t! Remember?”

“So I signed this paper-but this was before you invited this heathen woman.”

“Besides, dear, I was indeed just joking; I have no idea what Amy believes. For all I know she’s a Holy Roller or even a Southern Baptist who believes that you’re not going to Heaven because you haven’t been dunked.”

“Ach! This is so?”

“Well, I don’t know about Baptists for sure, but there are some denominations who do believe that. At any rate, you’re not quitting, so don’t get your bloomers in a bunch.”

Freni looked like the proverbial sheep that had been asked an algebra question. “My bloomers?”

“Your panties-your underwear. Freni, you still wear them, don’t you?” Freni’s particular subset of Amish is amongst the most conservative there are, and they do not wear the type of undergarments that we are generally familiar with. Instead, the women wear a heavy muslin underslip and the men don loose-fitting muslin underpants that reach to the knees. It took me many moons to talk Freni into wearing a brassiere and white cotton briefs by Hanes Her Way.

“Ach, I cannot believe- Magdalena, you are so-ach!” Freni flushed as she furiously tried to flail past me. Forsooth, given her fervor, it appeared that I was finished. Fortunately for me alliteration was not her forte, so that finally when she ceased to flounder, her speech was neither flowery nor foul.

“You make me so mad sometimes, I must spit cotton! Always the jokes, Magdalena. Always the teasing. This time I have had enough; this time I will not recommend to you the name of Mary Berkey.”